A Homemade Monster
by fuckingmonty
Summary: Although he wasn't actually there to see it, John Murphy fitfully dreams of his fathers execution every night, without fail. Tonight was no exception.


Although he wasn't actually there to see it, John Murphy fitfully dreams of his fathers execution every night, without fail. Tonight was no exception.

He lurched into the bathroom within the chamber that he shared with his mother, and fell upon the icy floor. John hastily picked him self up, and clung to the sink for balance, slowly raised his head up and made eye contact with the figure reflected in front of him. The harsh fluorescents accentuated his bloodshot eyes and tear stained cheeks.

_ it's your fault. it's all **your fault**. he's dead because of **you**. **it should have been you.**_

He let out another sob and turned his head away. He couldn't bare to look at himself any longer. He was a monster, and he was reminded of it every time he looked at the mirror and into emerald eyes that were identical to his fathers. At least that's what his mother would tell him when she had drank up as much illegal moonshine as she could get her hands on.

In Johns mind, he also lost his mother the day his father was floated. The mother he loved was long gone by the time he had ran home from school that day an flung himself into her arms, weeping, the loss of his father worsening the sickness that had gotten him killed in the first place. She pulled out of the hold he had on her and gave him a look he'd never forget. Disgust, emptiness, hurt, and disappointment lined the creases if her face. She was the one he had left, who was to make him feel better, kiss his head and cry with him, tell him it wasn't anyones fault, and reassure him that he was still loved.

He got no such relief.

He remembers she was a beautiful woman before that. He had inherited her thick russet hair, milky white skin, and quick tongue. She was tall and slim when John was a little boy. He thought she was the prettiest woman in the world. Now she was sinewy, the clear, bright face he remembered is now dark, sunken, and usually contorted into an angry drunken scowl. If she was ever sober (at least enough stand up on her own) she was either crying alone in her bunk or sleeping. It killed him that His own mother couldn't even look at him without feeling a stab of hatred.

He jumped when he heard the front door to their chamber open and a crash quickly followed. His mother rarely came home before noon, if she did at all so it was a complete surprise that she was here before John left for school. _What time is it any way?_ he thought, straightening up and looking at the digital clock above the door. _6:21 am_ it read in harsh red letters. He cautiously padded towards the door and entered the main room. His mother was sprawled across the floor, the familiar scent of strong liquor, vomit, and body odor greeted his nose like an old friend. He rushed to help her to bed but by the time she was standing up she was flailing and trying to push him away like he was a complete stranger violating her personal space.

"At least let me help you get to your bed." he reasoned, after a particularly stinging smack, still trying to get her struggling figure to a place she could sleep of what ever she was on.

"If i wanted help I would have asked for it!" she slurred, her breath hitting her son like a bus, nearly making him gag. She slithered her self out of his grasp and stumbled the remaining steps and fell into a sitting position on the bottom bunk.

John stood, staring at disapprovingly at the shell of a woman in front of him as she had her head between her legs, trying not to vomit.

"Why are you here" he asked bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"It's my fucking house." she stated indignantly, looking at him with seething hatred in her eyes before gagging and putting her head back down.

"You're never here this early, what did you do?" he tried to sound as disinterested as possible.

"None of your fucking business!" she spat with a venom that hit her son to the core, getting louder with every word. She tried to stand up, only to fall right back down.

"Whatever." he huffed before grabbing some clothes and returning to the bathroom to change. Through the door, he could easily make out his mothers sobs. He had learned a long time ago to just ignore it, think about anything else. If he listened too long, he knew he'd cry too, and he had to keep up a strong front for his mother, because, despite his better judgment, he still loved her.

John opened the bathroom door and he heard his mothers loud sniffing. He walked over to her bed, asking "Mom, are you going to be alright here alone? I can stay if you want..." trailing off on the last word, ashamed to be asking the question to the woman who was supposed to be taking care of him.

She turned to face him after having he face in a pillow facing the wall. If looks could kill, he would have been dead instantly. She began to get out of bed while repeatedly slurring "How dare you." getting more vicious with each breath. As soon as she sobered up, she lurched toward her son, throwing punches and slaps as often as she could. He managed to catch her hands after a few harsh scratchy to his face, and forced he back to her bed.  
"Calm down!" he yelled, tired and absolutely ready to leave her to her own deamons, " I'll go! I'll leave! You just have to get to bed!"

She broke out of his grasp, grabbing the closest item to her which happened to be the lamp on the regulation desk. She threw it in the tall boys direction, narrowly missing his head, clipping his shoulder and falling on the floor with a loud bang. She screamed "I do this because of you, you little shit. You're good for absolutely nothing. How the fuck did I get stuck with such a piece of shit kid? HUH?!" then turned around and sat on her bed, and rubbed her face.

He kicked the lamp across the room, smashing the glass bulb. "Are you happy? Does getting shit faced and getting pissed at me make you feel better? Does it help you forget dad when you tell me I'm worthless? I hope the fuck it does, or am I just putting up with your shit for nothing?" he demanded, getting closer to her with each sentence.

"Get out." she whispered without looking up at him.

"Fucking gladly." he muttered under his breath, striding towards the door, throwing it open and slamming it shut. He quickly walked quickly down the hall, avoiding eye contact with the one dark haired, smug looking janitor mopping the floors. (a/n:you knew i had to put bellamy in some how i couldnT RESIST) John turned down one of the empty hallways that led to a under used bathroom or something and punched the wall as hard as he could, let out a quiet sob and slid down to the floor. He at there for a while, but wether it was ten minutes or an hour, he didn't know. When he got up, he wiped his face and composed himself before slowly walking towards the sector of the arc that held the school. He showed up sometime during third period, but that was nothing new. The day went smoothly for the most part. That was until one pig face boy looked at him the wrong way and got on the wrong end of the missile that was all of the pent up aggression from that morning.

"Shit" John hissed as he looked down the hall at the gourds coming towards him, ready to take him to a comfy cell in the prison wing along with all of the other delinquents. He looked down the hall and saw no one so he took off. His lungs began to burn and he didn't know where his legs were taking him until he ended up at the same scratched metal door he's been walking in and out of his entire life. He quickly threw the door open to be faced with something much worse than the guards taking him into custody.

His mother was laying on the floor, surrounded by her own vomit, more moonshine bottles, and a handful of syringes, previously holding morphine no doubt considering the fresh pricks in her arm, writhing in pain and stifling screams. John is at her side in an instant, pulling her into his lap, cleaning her face off with the end of his shirt. Tears pricked his eyes for the third time today much to his dismay.

"You're ok mom, you're fine. Please keep your eyes open, someone's gonna be here to take you to medical, just... just please stay awake." he croaked, assuming that the guards would eventually catch up to him.

"Don't touch me!" she spat, the same venom from this morning lacing its self into her words. "It was you. If you could have just stayed healthy, if you didn't get sick he'd still be here." she said through a clenched jaw, slowly getting more forced as her organs started giving up. "I'd pick him over you any day. You killed him and now you're killing me. You killed your father."

And that was it. He felt her take her last breaths. The woman who gave him life lost her own in his arms.

John felt nothing but the stabbing pain guilt in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't focus on anything thing else. He let her body gently fall to the floor as he stared out towards the wall. He didn't hear the guards stomping boots come towards the still wide open door, or them telling him to put his hands behind his head. He didn't feel two guards grabbing him violently by both arms and dragging him towards a holding cell in the prison sector. He just felt that sharp, defined pain in his abdomen, and he wouldn't feel anything but for a long, long time...


End file.
